


I think it's going to rain today

by HistoriaGloria



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, During the 18 month time skip, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief, Mentions of assumed character death, Oscar and Zolf failing to cope with losing everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22854649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HistoriaGloria/pseuds/HistoriaGloria
Summary: '“So. What do you need?”Oscar Wilde looks different. His hair is short around his ears, like he is trying to grow it back out and he looks genuinely exhausted.“I need you to come back in,” he says quietly.'Oscar Wilde turns back up in Zolf's life long after he had left the group.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68





	I think it's going to rain today

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this has been running around my brain for a while because I enjoy being sad apparently.  
> But!  
> I hope you guys enjoy this little thing!
> 
> Title is from I Think It's Going to Rain Today (I like the version by Peter Gabriel best)  
> 'Broken windows in empty hallways  
> A pale dead moon in a sky streaked with grey  
> Human kindness is overflowing  
> And I think it's going to rain today.'

Zolf stands in front of Wilde, his arms folded, his eyes steely. 

“So. What do you need?”

Oscar Wilde looks different. His hair is short around his ears, like he is trying to grow it back out and he looks genuinely exhausted.

“I need you to come back in,” he says quietly.

It’s been nearly eight months since Zolf has seen Wilde, since Paris and leaving the rest of his friends in Prague. Eight months of arguing with Poseidon, of working with the Harlequins, of trying to navigate the madness the world is beginning to fall into. 

And now, Wilde shows up in the room he’s been staying in, not joking or making puns, just… cold. 

Zolf shifts from foot to foot awkwardly on his new mechanical legs. He’s no longer in Poseidon’s favour, but the Harlequins had been able to secure him some functional legs for the time being. They’re uncomfortable and unwieldy and he is basically using a glaive as a walking stick, but at least he’s mobile. He also still appears to be able to cast spells, though he’s absolutely certain Poseidon isn’t granting that anymore. He’s just running on the hope that that won’t abandon him completely.

He raises one eyebrow.

“You need me back? What for?” Wilde winces, like he hadn’t been expecting the question. Which, in Zolf’s opinion, is stupid. Did he just think that Zolf was going to agree and come sauntering back with him?

“My leads on the Simulacrum have gone dead. I think that it is connected to this… thing which has affected people in London and Paris.”

Zolf’s seen them. The Harlequins have just been called them the Infected and it makes sense. They are placid, calm, gentle, right up until they go for you. According to Rakefine, they have lost a few operatives to them. People who they thought were okay suddenly coming back changed. He just nods, letting Wilde continue.

“I had a lead in Damascus. There was a cleric of Hephaestus there who was meant to be helping to build something for us, but he’s vanished, along with all of the information we gave him. I… I’ve been in Japan trying to work through the leads but…” And here Wilde sighs, running a hand through his too short hair. “I need help. You know the Simulacrum stuff. I need your support.”

Zolf scowls. He had wanted a clean break from all this. From the Meritocrats, from his friends, from everything. And as much as leaving Hamid and Sasha hurt (he actively enjoyed leaving Bertie), Zolf doesn’t feel ready to join back up with them.

“I’m not working for the Meritocrats anymore,” he says, a little evasively.

“I know you’re working with the Harlequins,” Wilde says, calm as anything. “I’m not working with the Meritocrats either. I’m somewhat of a free agent.” A sad smile crosses the bard’s lips as he says that. “I’m asking you to help me, not the Meritocracy.” Zolf is quiet for a long moment. Long enough for Wilde to get uncomfortable and start talking again. “I’ve got a few other contacts, so you’ll have a team. And I think it would be best for you to start by trying to work out what’s causing all these freak weather patterns. It appears to be trying to trap people in cities, as though to assist with the infection.”

Now, that catches Zolf’s attention. He has been following up on some leads concerning the huge metallic kraken that he had seen in the Channel so long ago and the storms which had rocked several parts of the world. 

“Alright,” he says, carefully. “That I might be interested in.” Wilde sags a little, looking relieved. 

“I can put you in contact with a few others. Thank you, Zolf. I know you didn’t want to be caught up in all this again, but I didn’t have anyone else I could contact.”

“Why didn’t you just put Sasha and Hamid on it?” Zolf mutters, a little sharply.

Wilde goes very tense.

“Oh, of course, you don’t know,” he says quietly. Zolf’s heart _plummets._

“I don’t know what?” he spits, trying to keep his worry hidden.

“They’re gone, Zolf.” Wilde runs a hand through his hair again. 

“What do you mean _they’re gone,_ Wilde?! Where have they gone?” The dwarf knows that his voice is giving him away, pitching randomly. Oscar Wilde drops his face into his hands like a puppet with its strings cut.

“They went to Rome. I let them go.”

**_ Rome.  _ ** The word rings in Zolf’s head like a funeral bell. He knows that Rome is terrible; he knows that magic has a habit of being useless there, he knows that it’s a hellscape full of the worst creatures known on this earth. 

He knows that very few people make it out of Rome alive. 

But he also knows Hamid and Sasha. He knows that they’re stubborn and powerful and despite how squishy they are, they can just steer Bertie in the correct direction to be a tank for them. 

There is still hope they’re alive in there. And if there’s hope, Zolf can work with that.

“Well, send me and my team after them,” Zolf says immediately. “They’re not dead, let me go and try to find them.” And then, Wilde makes eye contact, for the first time in several minutes.

“They’ve been gone for nearly seven months now, Zolf. They’re dead. Saira said she was given a note from Hamid, a ‘if we don’t come back, we’re dead and I love you’ kind of note.”

“Saira?” is all Zolf replies, trying not to focus on the rest of that sentence. 

“Hamid’s sister. She was a contact of mine through the Meritocracy for a while.” Zolf wants to argue. Wants to say that this note means nothing and it could be a fake and…

But they’ve been gone for nearly seven months. 

And this is Hamid’s sister. Why would she lie?

“They’re gone, Zolf,” Wilde repeats quietly. 

And Zolf _breaks._

He slumps into a chair opposite Wilde, curling in on himself as he tries not to cry.

He had been okay with leaving the London Rangers (We’re Still Working On The Name) as long as he knew that they were out there, alive, still continuing. 

But to know that they aren’t is too much.

“Why did you let them go?” he hisses at Oscar, angry at first.

“I don’t know,” comes the reply, every bit as exhausted as Zolf feels. “I could tell you I didn’t know until after they’d left, which is true. I could tell you that I was far too ill to do anything to help them, which is also true. But it doesn’t really matter in the end. I failed to stop them and now they’re all dead.” Zolf glances up at the bard and he just looks wrecked. How long has this been eating at Wilde? How many hours of sleep has he lost, beating himself up for losing his team? 

About as many as he himself is about to lose. 

“If I’d have stayed,” he starts, the words sticking in his throat.

“I’m not sure it would have changed anything,” Wilde says slowly. “Hamid and Sasha had two paladins working with them when they left. And still, they went into Rome and didn’t come back out.” 

There is a part of Zolf that still wants to try. There is a part of Zolf that desperately wants to just head straight to Rome and try and find them.

But what is he, one cleric(?) with solid, unwieldy metal legs going to do in Rome?

He inhales shakily, but the tears are in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Zolf,” Wilde says, and he genuinely sounds it. “I’m sorry.” Zolf takes a long moment to breathe, trying to force down the emotions in his chest. Crying in front of Wilde is not something that he wants to do.

“You’re sure?” the cleric manages to choke out. “You’re sure they’re gone?” The other man nods, reaching out a hand to place cautiously on Zolf’s shoulder. He flinches as though to shrug it off. It isn’t like he ever really got on with Wilde, but he needs the support right now and eventually lets himself sag into his touch.

“We, um… Yes. I’m sure,” comes the reply, thickly, as though Oscar himself is attempting to fight down tears. Zolf takes a moment, letting himself sob quietly.

“Alright,” he says, rubbing his tears away. “I’ll come back in. I’ll help you with this. For them.” Wilde nods and moves to reach into his pocket, drawing out a small silver flask.

“Thank you.” He takes a quick swig and then offers the flask to Zolf. “In memory?” Zolf pauses but accepts the flask, taking a long swig. It’s a very fine brandy, which burns pleasantly down his throat.

“For Sasha and Hamid.” He takes another sip before handing it back to Wilde who copies him.

“For Sasha and Hamid.”

They are both quiet for a long moment until the bard flicks his fingers, magicking away some of the exhaustion and tear stains.

“Let’s get going. There’s a lot to be done.”

And Zolf basically vaults himself upright, using his glaive to walk.

“Point me in the right direction.” And they head out together, into this upside down world, heavy with the knowledge of the loss of their friends. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come bother me on Tumblr or Twitter! HistoriaGloria!


End file.
